


The Best Part of Believe is the Lie

by SleipnirLokison



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Recreational Drug Use, fairytale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:30:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleipnirLokison/pseuds/SleipnirLokison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Grimm Brothers fairytale, ‘Cat and Mouse in Partnership.’</p><p>But with drugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Part of Believe is the Lie

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Fall Out Boy song Sophmore Slump or Comeback of the Year.
> 
> I wrote this based on the question '“…the waiting had been magical…” Write a story to be included in a collection of modern fairytales.' So naturally that meant I would search the internet for a suitable fairytale that wasn't all mushy and romantic. I then decided it was a good idea to write a Sherock fic, so here we are with this, whatever this may be.
> 
> My first attempt at a fic so be gentle. I didn't have anyone beta this if you spot any mistakes 'gis a shout and I will correct them.
> 
> Warning: Shameless use of quotes from TV shows, songs and whatever else I thought would fit in.
> 
> Feedback encouraged.

 

No one ever thought that they would last as roommates. Especially not Sherlock.

Sherlock was like a cat, stealthy and stunning. He has a tall, lean figure with a countenance etched into a pale angular face topped with a shock of dark black curls with sharp aquamarine eyes. Swooping in and out of rooms with all the grace of a cheetah swishing his long black coat behind him and blue cashmere scarf pulled tight around his long expanse of neck. Not easily taken to by many, most simply used him for his mind or ridicule him for it. Which in his own way Sherlock understood, most people didn’t like their whole lives, every secret they possess stripped bare by a single glance of a 28 year old over confident Consulting Detective. Whereas, John was more like a mouse, short but with muscles slowly softening after his discharge from service in Afghanistan. With his friendly demeanour and woollen jumpers most took to him straight away. He was the sort of person one would trust to help with her shopping in the supermarket or help their grandmother to cross the road. With his tightly cropped light mouse brown hair, which with the right amount of light turns into a golden halo on his head, and blue grey eyes.

Dr John Watson, a genuine war hero, invalided home from a bullet to the left shoulder in the line of duty saving a fellow soldier. Sherlock Holmes, a Consulting Detective with an addiction to cigarettes and drugs. More specifically his poison of choice, cocaine.  Well, a recovering addict up until recently.

It wasn’t that much of a shock to Sherlock when he started using again. The lack of cases from New Scotland Yard and John filling in for a doctor at the local clinic away on maternity leave gives Sherlock a good nine hours to occupy. Shooting the walls got him a lecture from Mrs Hudson and a scowl from John. Harassing Molly in the morgue of St Barts for body parts got him banned for a month. And his mould experiments were getting incredibly dull.

 

                                                                    ***

It was a relatively ordinary Monday morning. Sherlock sat wrapped in the long expanse of his coat, knees drawn up to his chest perched on his chair pretending to watch Jeremy Kyle, such drivel.

‘No, no, NO! OF COURSE HE’S NOT THE BOYS FATHER! LOOK AT THE TURN UPS ON HIS JEANS!’

‘I knew it was dangerous... Getting you into crap telly,’ John laughed as he entered the room.

Sherlock made a non committal noise in response waiting for John to leave for work, surely he’d be gone soon the impatience drumming through him as he waited for John to finally grab his jacket from the hook.

John waved a hand and on his way out the door echoed a ‘Goodbye,’ as he left.

Finally.

Sherlock lept from his chair pacing to the window, waiting for the bang of the door and for John to emerge on the street. He waited five minutes so as to make sure John didn’t return.

Coat thrashing about him as he leapt down the steps of 221B Baker Street and out onto the pavement. The cold air of the early December morning biting at his features. Turning up his coat collar and nestling his chin into his scarf he strode down the road.

                                                                    ***

Rapping his fist against the hard wood of the apartment door, he remembered the last time he’d set foot inside the grimy building. It had been three years ago, just before he’d gotten clean, and for good reason. The drug no longer had been simply staving his boredom he had started to become dependent on it. It had started eating away at his brain, rotting it, and well his brain is essential, the rest was just transport.

The door yanked open revealing Victor Trevor, a tall lean man with bright blue eyes as sharp as icicles and ginger hair pushed up into a ridge atop his head, his face sparsely dusted with week old stubble and dressed in a tatty pair of old jeans and a black tank top. Victor greeted him with a smile and a clap on the shoulder.

‘Sherlock, and here was me thinking my most valued customer had gone and gotten clean,’ the smile broadening but not quite reaching his eyes.

‘What can I do you for?’

‘You know exactly what I’m here for,’ Sherlock retorted.

‘That I do. And lucky for you I just got some in,’ stepping aside from the door gesturing for him to enter.

Sherlock brushed past him stopping short of the couch at the site of a lanky blond man sprawled on the sofa. One arm thrown over his eyes, the other hanging off the side of the couch and his long jean clad legs hanging over the arm. _Ex-military, dishonourably discharged, well educated, went to university, crack shot._

‘Ah, Sherlock this is Sebastian Moran. He’s my new supplier, he’s got the best stuff in town,’ raising a bag of cocaine from the table and shaking it enticingly at Sherlock.

‘Seb, this is Sherlock Holmes.’

Moran’s arm slid from over his face revealing eyes like a tigers. Scanning over Sherlock like a piece of prey. Shifting his weight off the couch he perched on the edge looking if anything like he was getting ready to pounce. Instead he offered up his hand.

‘Mr Holmes.’

Briefly glancing at the procured hand Sherlock immediately pivoted to face Victor.

‘Enough with the pleasantries, do you have what I want or not?’

                                                                    ***

Ten minutes later Sherlock was settled on the lumpy sofa beside Moran, rubber band tied around his left bicep in preparation pausing only to send a quick text to John.

  **Lestrade texted. Out of his debt again with a case, don’t wait up. SH**

**Good, thought you were going to crack up or do something drastic stuck at home like that. Mrs Hudson would throw you out if you blew any more holes in her wall. JW**

With a pang of guilt at lying to John Sherlock picked up the needle sitting, beside a large clunky crystal ashtray, on the mug rim stained coffee table. The tip of the needle glinting as it caught the light from the bulb hanging from the low roof.

Clenching his fist Sherlock slipped the needle into the prominent vein trailing down his arm. The familiar feeling of the prick through his skin filled his body with a wave of anticipation, and without a second thought pushed the white substance into his body. The liquid trickling through his veins, heating them along the way. Pulling the needle from his arm Sherlock placed it back on the coffee table, closing his eyes and leaning back against the sofa he waited. Waited for the relief of the cocaine to take hold of his body and mind, clearing it of cases and deductions.

As the drug started to take effect Sherlock could feel his heart rate decreasing, his body becoming sated and relaxed. One by one the thoughts of his mind fell away into the unknown. His thoughts scattering like stars in a sparse sky.

                                                                    ***

At well past midnight Sherlock climbed the stairs into 221B. Skipping the fourth step, half out of habit half, in the fear that the squeak of the step would wake John. He didn’t want John seeing him crashing form the continuous high he’d been on all day. John would instantly recognise the glazed haze over his eyes and the drawn out features of a drug addict relapsing into old habits.

With all the haste and clandestineness he could muster he darted through the kitchen into his bedroom. Letting the door click softly closed behind him he slid out of his coat and scarf. Replacing his shirt for a baggy tee shirt and his suit trousers for a pair of boxers he slid into bed.

The thrum in his head and muscles from the hit had him figuratively paralysed in the bed. The worst part of getting high for him was always the comedown, his muscle would scream out in agonising pain while his mind flooded with everything he had been trying to block out, each thought hitting him like a brick to the head.

For the next few hours while sleep eluded him he massaged the track marks the needles had left in his arm. Each turning to a deep shade of purple as the seconds turned to hours and stretched by with all the grace of a sloth. 

When he woke the only noise was the noise of the early morning traffic beginning to build up on Baker Street. The light filtering around the curtains cast low rays of early morning sunshine over his face. Lying limp for a minute he decided it was best he got up now and make it look like he had been up all night working on the case giving him an excuse for the bags under his eyes and slouched posture.

                                                                    ***

‘Jesus, Sherlock. You look terrible.  Interesting case then?’ John asked placing a hot cup on tea beside Sherlock.

‘Mmm.’

‘What’s the case?’ John echoed back to Sherlock as he went about his morning ritual to get ready for work.

‘New drug dealer in town, Lestrade wants him off the streets as soon as possible,’ without looking up from his laptop screen or faltering in his motion of tap, tap, tap on the keys, he replied matter of factly.

 It was only half a lie after all, even so John would be furious if he knew. Probably more so about the fact that Sherlock hadn’t gone to him for help but instead went off and got high in some dingy flat.

John just nodded a reply taking a bite out of his toast and not going back to the subject again, thankfully. Of all the people in the world he hated lying to John the most.

                                                                    ***

A few more days of Sherlock moping around the flat had him back in the exact same position as before, bored out of his mind. John was already at work so he would not have to explain himself, but still he was averse to sinking to the low he had before. In a last vane attempt to occupy himself he flicked on the telly.

_‘...Sir, emergency! I think I’ve been run over by a cab...’_

Flick.

_‘...The waiting had been magical...’_

Flick.

_‘...In the world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king, and honey you should see me in a crown...’_

Flick.

_‘...Here you are, Skip, nice hot cup of coffee.’_

_‘Ah, UH, it’s cold!’_

_‘Nice cup of coffee.’_

_‘It’s horrible!’_

_‘Cup of coffee.’_

_‘I’m not even sure it is coffee...’_

_‘Cup...’_

Switching off the telly and throwing the remote on the sofa he walked over to the mantle scrubbing his hands over his face, he confided in his oldest companion, the skull on his mantle piece.

‘Who even writes this drivel, Billy?’ he asked, picking up the skull and peering at it as if it held the world’s oldest mysteries.

Coming to a conclusion Sherlock bounded across the room to grab his coat and scarf pulling them on as he dashed down the stairs and out into the wind and rain.

Pulling his collar up against the wind and rain he set off for Victors. The walk seemed to drag on with his arm involuntarily spasming in anticipation the whole way there.

Pausing only at Victor’s door to send John a text.

**Lestrade texted. New case, I’ll be home late again. SH**

Without waiting for a reply Sherlock placed three firm knocks on Victor’s door. Victor answered the door almost immediately with a scowl on his face.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ Clearly not who had been expecting then.

‘Thought last time was just a ‘once off,’ turning back to old habits then?’

‘No, I wasn’t who you were expecting was I? Where’s your live in pet today?’

Scowl still promptly in place Victor’s only reply was a quizzical gaze.

‘Your friend, the ex-military chap, Moran,’ Sherlock clarified.

‘Well I could say the same for you. Where’s dear John these days? Got some sense? Packed up and left like everyone else?’

‘Just give me the drugs and shut up.’

Lifting his hands in mock surrender Victor handed over the bag and a fresh needle.

With a slight tremble in his hand Sherlock tied the rubber band securely on his left bicep, pushing the needle into his arm and releasing the liquid in one quick movement mastered over time. The heat of the liquid trickled down his veins, burning the inside of his veins and capillaries. The heat sending riplets of pleasure around his body.

The familiarity of the act was enough to put his mind at ease nearly instantly. Once the drug began to take effect clearing his mind the euphoria kicked in.

                                                                    ***

‘Is that THREE nicotine patches on your arm, Sherlock?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Why do you have three patches on your arm?’ without looking up Sherlock could tell John was pinching the bridge of his nose.

‘Helps me think. It’s impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days,’ Sherlock retorted.

‘Yes but three, surely one is enough?’

‘It’s a three patch problem, John.’

The real reason for the patches was, yes half way to stop the cravings for a cigarette Mrs Hudson hates when he smokes in the flat but mainly, to cover up the marks on his arms. The fresh needle marks were turning a purplish blue whereas the older ones were going a quite unsavoury shade of yellow.

He thought it best to keep John living in blissful ignorance when it came to his renewed drug use.

The comedown from the cocaine was getting tougher each time he used. Before it had solely affected him physically with aches running through his body but now he was restlessly pacing around the flat like a caged animal. Nothing seemed to be able to hold his attention for any length of time, he tried reviving a few long forgotten experiments fleetingly remembering why they were forgotten. He tried reading through emails of possible cases which all seemed to be simple acts of infidelity or children whose pets went missing, the most interesting of which was the case of Bluebell the glow in the dark bunny who magically disappeared from its cage lock still intact.

When none of these sufficed on derailing his unease he turned to the one thing that he could always rely upon to clear his mind and occupy him for any length of time, his violin. Carefully taking the antique instrument, which had been a gift from Mummy on his twentieth birthday, from its blue velvet lined case. He began to tune it, delicately adjusting each string and plucking at them with his finger.

After a few minutes of preparing the violin he placed it eloquently on his shoulder, revelling in the familiar weight that it placed on his left shoulder. With a quick slide of the bow over the strings he began to play. Every room and crevice of the flat was filled with the sharp sounds that erupted from the elegant instrument. The melodies that ricocheted off of each wall, like claps of thunder, came directly from his fingers that radiated the tension in his mind and body.

Regardless of the beautiful music that was emitting from the violin it could not hold his attention, and when his violin failed to hold his attention he knew that he would not be able to abstain from using again for much longer.

                                                                    ***

Slipping the needle out of his arm he clenched his eyes shut and lolled his head on the back of the sofa.

With a flurry of noise his eyes fluttered opened like quicksilver, the chaos that was unfolding before him was completely unexpected. John had kicked in the door of Victors flat in looking positively livid. His countenance was contorted into a fierce scowl, Sherlock had never seen anyone so mad in his life.

Victor was long passed out on his bed and probably wouldn’t even hear the commotion erupting from his living room.

John stomped across the room, pointing an accusing index finger right in Sherlock’s face.

‘You lied to me,’ John spit out.

‘.... John I...’

‘NO! Just stop, Sherlock. You lied. ‘

‘Please John, just listen.’

‘NO, Sherlock _you_ listen. You purposefully decieved me. You promised you wouldn’t use again,’ his voice raised several octaves higher than usual.

The drugs were beginning to affect his better judgement and releasing his temper. In a flurry of movement Sherlock was on his feet towering over Johns short compact form, mirroring the pose John had frequented a few moments previous. With a long, bony index finger invading Johns personal space.

‘John just shut up, it is none of your concern what I put into my body,’ Sherlock spat in retort.

‘You _lied_ , Sherlock. You lied and ran off to some junkies flat,’ gesturing to the room around them.

‘ _SHUT UP_ , JOHN, JUST SHUT UP,’ his voice had an undertone of a plead to it.

‘Piss off-‘

Trembling with anger Sherlock grabbed the crystal ashtray, over flowing with stumped out cigarette buds, from the coffee table and in one swift movement the crystal hit Johns left temple with a low thump and a crash as the glass and cigarette buds showered on the floor as John fell limp at Sherlock’s feet.

Blood spilled over Johns face. The startling red illuminated the pale blue and grey tinted eyes, which were rapidly becoming lifeless in his paling face.

The copper metallic smell of the blood wafted into Sherlock’s nostrils causing his stomach to violently convulse, churning its contents. Dropping to his knees he hurriedly reached for John’s wrist searching for a pulse, the soft thump thump of life, a glimmer of hope.

‘Please, John. Don’t be dead,’ pleading with the motionless body in front of him. A tight ache spread across his chest accompanied by the scratching feeling of tears welling up behind his eyes.

‘Just one more thing, John. Don’t... Be... Dead, just stop it stop this,’ the lump in his throat causing his voice to break on the last word.

Laying his head on John’s chest desperately still clinging to his wrist, hoping, waiting to feel the life beat through his veins again. Letting the ache from his chest capsulate his entire body, the tears streamed down his face leaving dark patches on Johns tee shirt.

Tearing himself away from John’s lifeless form he grabbed the bag of cocaine and syringe from the coffee table knowingly mixing too much powder into water. Flicking the cylinder of the syringe to rid the solution of any air bubbles.

With swollen cheeks and burning eyes he sat back down beside John. The blood was seeping into the carpet and into his tightly cropped hair. The thick blood drenching his hair, causing it to cling in short clotting strands to his forehead. The edges of the pool of blood crusting into a hard edge surrounding his head.

Casting a final look over his best friend, only friends, body he unmercifully plunged the needle into his arm, releasing the solution from its confinements of the syringe into the coursing blood in his veins.

Whispering to John, ‘I was so alone and I owe you so much,’ his sight began to blur, black dots clustered in his vision. His heart began to slow, _thud, thud.. thud... thud....thud.....thud,_ to a deathly rate. Closing his eyes and resting his head back onto John’s torso he let the drug drag him into the abyss.


End file.
